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Chalk |
Wiggle your toes, child. Pay heed when your crossed ankles, below, behind, Meaty haunches wedged between wood and cold Round-bellied gray brown gum-encrusted underside of this squeaky old desk Seat cutting into your butt Remind you that left To their devices Lectures will Pinch and Bind. Fidget happily and listen. Which swath of color fills The center of our canvas? A princess wrapped in superlative? Rough-cut planks, torn sails, blood? A thousand angry captains filled With team spirit and longing? The full ruby lips of a random Noble sweepstakes winner howling, Jumping up and down, waving the Lucky ticket, or the phlegmatic God in his olympian sound booth, Telling her over the applause Just what she's won, Bob? The rosebuds you gather Whisper of you in passing To the cat, who twists Their shade and winks at The bugs she swipes. They Go home at night, quaking. Where did you get those again? Some guy poked me in the ribs And said to me this once, Hey kid, when you gonna find Yourself a sweetheart so I Can talk to you about mine? Wiggle your toes, child. Stand up full, shake off Your top-heavy desk and Run out to find that guy. Tell him he can meet me On the opposite shore When my fleet has grown Enough to hold her face. With that, The thin-faced man laid down his chalk, Propped his trousers against the globe, And scrapingly waltzed his rolly-chair Down the hall. |